


Beyond Despair

by Wanda_Magnus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9/11 mentioned, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Businessman Castiel, Castiel as James Novak - Freeform, Dean Winchester Has Trust Issues, F/M, Gaslighting, Injured Dean Winchester, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Military Castiel (Supernatural), Oblivious Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanda_Magnus/pseuds/Wanda_Magnus
Summary: Dean Winchester is a burden to his brother. He has to spend every three month in a psychiatric facility in order to 'fix' his disorder he had obtained while being missing for seven years. James Novak is a successful white collar, and he, like thousands of other people on same positions, has a vague impression that his life doesn't belong to him. It wouldn't be any different to James if only his face wasn't a recurring pattern of a dream of a loony stranger he accidentally runs into due to a cascade of seemingly unremarkable events.A thunderstorm in November indicates that their lives are probably not what they seem to be.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's not betaed and I am not a native English speaker, so take pity on me for possible mistakes.   
> Any savior beta angel for me, please?  
> This story is dark and labyrinthine, but I promise that everything will come to the surface in the end.

‘I saw him again’ Dean said, accommodating his hand on his lap. ‘Last night. You can say whatever, but I’m adamant that he saved me _that day_ ’

The doctor, a tall, youngish black woman in her forties, sighed ruefully. 

‘We spoke about it, Dean. You were not in nine-eleven. That day you were in your brother’s house in California. That accident overwhelmed you, it made you feel vulnerable, and that is why your brain used it to replace the real episode in your memory. Something that you were so unsettled with your brain preferred to forget and cover with false memory’.

‘I told you I don’t believe this crap’.

‘You saw the documents’.

‘It’s fake’.

‘Your brother witnessed that you were in Palo-Alto with him and his wife Jessica. Do you think that he is a liar?’

Dean was silent for a moment. He turned his face away trying not to look at the doctor. She was in a black blouse, with heavily applied dark grey eye shadows and gaudily red glossy lipstick. She looked like an intentionally highlighted zone on a stage among the grayish non-distinguishable background. It made her look like a character of a video game who was about to give a quest to Dean. The only thing she was lack of was a golden pixilated circle around her chair and a hot key hint beneath it.

‘Jess was dead’. He finally panted. ‘She died at Halloween, 98’.

The doctor sighed again, opened a dark red folder she held on her lap and pulled out a motley piece of glazed paper, which appeared to be a photo when she handed it to Dean. There were three people posing on the picture: him, in huge hippy-dippy plastic sunglasses, with an opened bottle of champagne, his brother Sam with a fuzzy garland over his neck and a glass in his hand, and a young blonde in a silvery mini dress, with her arm around his brother’s waist. There was a sharply white sign _Happy Millennium_ behind their backs. 

‘It’s fake’ Dean said. ‘This white is too bright to be real in this lighting’.

‘It was reflective’, the doctor said absentmindedly, but bethought herself, ‘Your brother have more of Jessica’s photos after the date you mentioned. And then again, where do you think your nephew John came from?’

Dean’s face went pale abruptly.

‘I don’t have a nephew. Never had’.

The doctor sighed again. If Dean cared more about her professional skills he would be surely pissed off by her obvious irritancy of his stubbornness. But at that point he was already too pissed off by her entire agenda of “healing” him to pay attention on her competence. 

‘Well, Dean. Tell me then: what does your brother do now? Where does he live? With whom?’

‘I don’t know’.

‘Assume’.

‘He pays for that wish wash crap that you’re barfing out from this shitty cakehole of yours, so I guess he has a decent job with full medical insurance’ Dean said, trying to sound as maliciously as possible. He hated that woman. ‘And probably he is not alone, because he had to palm me off on your godforsaken hole of a kindergarten. Otherwise he’d take care of me himself. Am I right?’

‘Your guessing is quite correct, Dean’, the doctor said, ignoring his crudeness. ‘Your brother is a lawyer; he lives in Palo-Alto with his wife Jessica and their son John. But he put you here not because he wanted, as you worded, to palm you off. He put you in Lawrence Saving Path because he wants you to get professional services and because he wants you to get better’.

Dean frowned at her, and then made a tell-me-about-it face. He was about to burst in laughing. 

‘Wow, lawyer, really. At least something in our versions of reality – ‘ He air quoted, ‘matched’. 

‘Dean, I admit that I have no idea of what you went through, and I do not pretend that I understand your feelings nowhere near. But if you at least allow yourself to accept my help, at least try to understand why my ‘version of reality’ is inadequate for you, you may feel better. We have a long path ahead; I do not promise that it would be easy or fast. But to get through this path, you should make a first step. And the first step is to allow yourself to answer the question: why does this ‘version of reality’ hurt you so much?’

Dean stared at her desperately. He listened to her, and he felt tears congesting in his eyes. 

‘Well,’ he said, pulling off his jacket and tossing it aside. ‘You’re so brilliant in explanations. So, doctor – ‘ He jerked the collar of his T-shirt so impulsively it ripped apart, baring his left shoulder with a thick and prominent red burn in a shape of a human palm of a hand. ‘How do you explain this?’


	2. A Sound of Thunder

James Novak was one of those fanciful originals who were always content. It would be a shame if he wasn’t, because his life seemed to be something that hundreds of people would crave for: well-deserved position in Seraph Enterprise, huge, tastefully appointed apartment in an area of good address, smoking hot appearance, unchallenged reputation and an alluring status of an answer to a maiden's prayer. His dentist though that James Novak had sold his soul to the devil because of his flawless smile; even if the lower row was a little crooked, it looked rather charming than something that should be fixed. James Novak was polite, assertive, with exquisite sense of humor, masculine as needed, but confident showing his feminine side, with disarming needle phobia – that was how their company psychologist had described him in her annual report. She was, obviously, slightly rapt by him as well as bunches of women and some men were. 

James Novak was certainly the man you would like to become in case if you came to be a human being on Earth. 

Except for James Novak himself felt like he had supplanted someone. It wasn’t his life and he was wasting his time on succeeding in something he didn’t give a fuck for. 

He didn’t share his deep thought with anybody because when he tried to put that into words it sounded like bragging: look at me, I preponderate over you and don’t even want it. Ha-ha, loser. He calmed himself down with a thought that that was damnation for all people with high IQ: to be fluent in processes everyone else stammered at and feel alienated because of it. He had read it out from a book with a name he didn’t even remember, some self-help shit that all businesspeople devoured with gusto. 

The other thing that made James feel superior to others were his slim to none corporeal needs. The secret of his impressive productivity was that he didn’t get distracted by lunch during the day and needed really short sleep at night. He had to put an alarm to eat, because he believed that he had to. His body felt healthy and fit without any physical activity, even his physician had acknowledged it. And the most unfamiliar part for him was to feel sexual desire. Well, James had experienced some forms of fleeting attraction to various people, but he never felt urge to have sex, as if his body was completely out of a breeding race and didn’t want to produce its genes in next generations.

He considered himself some kind of a rain man, high-functioning autistic person maybe. He never wanted to probe deeper. He was content just knowing that he differed from others and that he would never be able to make a solid connection with a red blooded person. Perhaps, it was that that made him so attractive for people: a tiny glimpse of mysteriousness, otherworldly charm multiplied by his sexy mundane exterior, like he was a romantic character purposefully written for a prime time melodrama. 

That day was no different to others: James woke up, evacuated his bowl and bladder (without any urge to; it still seemed like a postmodern joke that he had to do it every day), showered, carefully trimmed his beard to make it look like always-three-day stubble, rammed his high-protein breakfast down his throat, and get dressed for the day. When he came to his workplace, the assistant told him that he has an appointment in a conference room, and James followed her instructions amenably. At the time he entered the premise, there was already a person there.

It was a young, tall, good-looking guy with longer hair brushed back in a shipshape manner. He was tanned, fit, wearing a good suit. Everything in him was saying that his life was more or less perfect, that he was a professional at his business, and that he was ok with who he was. Exactly how James looked. 

‘Good morning’ the guy said. ‘My name is Sam Winchester; I am the representative of Morningstar Enterprise’.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester’ James said, bending down to shake Sam Winchester’s hand. ‘I’m James Novak, and I represent, apparently, Seraph Enterprise’.

Sam Winchester smirked politely. 

‘We have five more minutes and one person to wait for. So, how do you find it here in Chicago?’

‘Impressive. But cold’.

‘You miss Cali, don’t you?’ James said with dexterously faked compassion. ‘I know that our climate is not that Eden-like, but it’s not like it doesn’t have its benefits’.

‘Of course. It’s not that flaming hot during summer, right?’

‘Exactly’, James unsheathed his teeth in a grin. ‘How long are you here for? Already missing your family?’

It was James’ specialty to go straight into personal topics with strangers, like it was an afterthought. They usually gave in to his provocation and chatted freely, even feeling a bit guilty and dirty after.

‘Honestly, yes’ Sam Winchester was no different to others. ‘I miss my wife and son. Have never been leaving him for that long. Fortunately, I’m leaving tonight’.

‘Is he little, right? How old is he?’ James continued to chat his way through Sam Winchester’s personal defense.

‘Three’ the poor guy smiled. 

‘Can’t even imagine how it feels like to be a father of a three-years-old son’, James said, and his words suddenly seemed weird to him, like he heard them through the water. ‘Might be great’.

He didn’t bother to make up some original answers because the whole conversation was something he had had many times: small talk, business talk, whatever-the-fuck-talk, touché. Frankly speaking, that contract was a honeypot for Seraph and a dead end for Morningstar. The latest was bounded by terms of its agreement with a third part, and that third part coveted only Seraph Enterprise to work with their beloved contractor. It was unprofitable for Morningstar, and they had already done their best to sabotage that contract, or at least to provide any delays possible, and Seraph finally managed to bring them to heel.

Being a crafty social bitch, James had conversations about children really often: it was a common soft spot of young parents who hadn’t have a chance to spoil relationships with their offspring yet. But sometimes, especially when it was coming to a little-sons-related small talk, he felt some vague uneasiness. His intricate psycho literature tended to think that he probably had had a very bed episode in his childhood and that was the reason why he sometimes felt uncomfortable speaking about kids of the same gender and age; but James had never had a wish to discuss that with a professional. It wasn’t that important, in the end. 

Their negotiations brought him tons of paperwork, so James headed right to his office to accomplish his today’s mission. He started at eleven, and raised his head when it was already half past seven.

It was dark outside. The washy picture of evening Chicago was blurring through his full-height window. It was raining. Typical late autumn rain, plentiful, but totally softball.

James was not an inveterate daydreamer, but he liked rainy evenings, and was tend to fall for their immersive charm. He usually felt like a stretched string, and only heavy rain could release his tension a bit. James started to feel his limbs; how soft and sensitive his finger-pads were; how confined his toes felt in socks and boots. He started to feel his very body: short hair standing on end on his nape, eyelashes tightly growing around his eyes, and even his rubbed skin under the elastic band of his underwear. James felt… aware. As if all his senses suddenly decided to make a pilot bell in order to find out if he’s using their services or just ignoring his subscription. 

He had read about it: some drugs usually could bring such an effect. But he was sure that he didn’t take any drugs, no way.

And then the thunder rolled. 

Chicago was a city of various sounds: din, brattle, riddle, grumble, clutter, rumble, and importunate street music, so untalented it almost made you pay to stop that hideous thing. James decided that he heard some of street sounds first because he was not used to hear thunder in the middle of November. Then, he realized that it was highly unlikely to hear any car accident or thudding of a lorry on his 42nd floor, and finally understood what it was. 

Perfect. The only thing that made him feel like human more than just rain was thunderstorm.

James felt refreshed. He took another look at his papers and noticed that the most important document lacked one signature of the dear Morningstar lawyer Sam Winchester.

James didn’t have a shadow of a doubt that Sam Winchester had done it on purpose.

James had experienced all sorts of catches Morningstar could make up to get off the hook.

The last trick (pathetic but substantial) was pulled by its memorable lawyer, and, technically, James was responsible for that. 

James cursed through his teeth. It was a freak-out situation. He wasn’t pissed off, not at all. He had in mind just two things: one was maniacally cold, sharp intention to excoriate their company lawyer for being blind as brickbat, and second was to call Sam Winchester and to ask him to assist in fixing that unfortunate slip.

‘Sam Winchester’ the answer was almost immediate, through James heard a lot of ambient noise on the background. 

‘It’s James Novak, Seraph Enterprise, we had a meeting this morning’ James hurried to say. ‘I have just noticed a trifle that may cause a delay in our collaboration. You forgot to sign the last paper. Are you available tonight? We can fix it.’

‘O-oh…’ Sam Winchester sighed heavily. ‘Actually, I’m about to leave Chicago in two hours. Already at the airport. Probably we can postpone…’

‘Never mind’ James interrupted. ‘I’ll come there’.

‘I’m not sure you have enough time – ‘

‘Please, Mr. Winchester, let it be my problem, not yours’ James said brightly. His opponent was supposed to literally see him beaming through the wire. ‘I’ll call you once I’m there’.

James caught taxi and headed to the airport. On his way he called the airport well-care office and found out that next flight to Cali is in 2 hours and 50 minutes. He smirked to himself. No one in this world deserved to be trusted. James had million reasons to hate lawyers, but their love for chicanery was definitely on top five. 

There was a regular traffic jam, but James didn’t feel rush, he had enough time to catch Sam Winchester. He entered the required terminal still having time and called him.

‘Mr. Winchester?’

‘Mr. Novak?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I’ve given up expecting you. I’m next to the gate, boarding is about to start’.

James couldn’t hold and rolled his eyes.

‘I think you’re exaggerating, Mr. Winchester’ He smiled ‘The flight to California is in an hour and a half’.

Sam Winchester was silent for a while, and finally said.

‘I’m not flying to California tonight, Mr. Novak. My flight is to Kansas City. It’s only 40 minutes left’. 

‘What?’

‘You can come here if you want’.

It was below any zero respect, by James’ taste. Sam Winchester was a big lank liar. Ok, James said to himself, if he had to get through control to reveal that awful lie, he’d do it. 

He was in the middle of the fiery conversation with the airport employee when Sam Winchester called him back. 

‘I can’t wait for you anymore, Mr. Novak. I have a last boarding call’.

‘I still think you’re kidding me’ James heard himself saying.

Then he heard Sam Winchester’s puzzled chuckle.

‘It’s totally explainable why you think so, Mr. Novak. But believe me: I’m really going to Kansas’.

‘It was Kansas City twenty minutes ago’.

‘I’m actually going to Lawrence, Kansas, via Kansas City. You can meet me there if it’s vital to you to get my signature. Now I’m sorry, I’m going to board the plane; I can’t afford myself being late’.

James stared at his thrumming cell phone. He could admit in the face of God that he had never, never ever been _that_ unlucky before. He felt like one of those silly Leslie Nielsen’s characters who had always been facing dumb obstacles and been forced to do stupid things to fix it. Even through James didn’t believe that Sam Winchester really left for Kansas, he asked the frazzled employee to get him a ticket. It was his pass to the gate zone, where he planned to meet an abject liar named Sam Winchester waiting for his little Cali plane. 

Sam Winchester didn’t show up. James waited till the last call, and there was no one who looked like the lawyer boy. Sam Winchester wasn’t the guy you could easily lose in a crowd. 

James suddenly felt… betrayed. He wasn’t use to be a fool of circumstances, was he?

Sam Winchester’s phone told that his owner was unavailable. 

James could tell for sure that he had never failed like that. It was clear in his mind that he had been lucky for his entire life. His plans had never worked out badly. That wasn’t his life…

Or it was?

The feeling James had was oddly familiar. He felt like… he had failed multiple times, and that failure was nothing in comparison to his other, worse fuck-ups. 

‘ _I let you down_ ’ he heard his own voice. ‘ _Forgive me, I let you down again_ ’.

If asked, James couldn’t remember anyone he could have been saying it to. He didn’t have a person who trusted him that much, and he didn’t have a person he appreciated that much to feel guilty for. Didn’t have and hadn’t ever had. No strings attached. No bonds. But the memory seemed so real it hurt. 

James decided that he maybe needed a shrink.

But first, he needed to get to Lawrence, Kansas.


	3. Pass This On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: stigmatization of mental disorders, probably offensive

‘What a fucking hell, Dean, do you realize that it can clap you into the nuthouse forever?! Do you understand that?!’

Sam, that World King of Equability Sam, was yelling at him in the quietness of his ward. Dean kind of enjoyed how the sound reverberated. Echo in there was strong, because his ward was almost empty: a bed, a bedside cabinet, a closet, and a chair. Such a perfect place to miraculously become sane out of insane. 

‘I didn’t say anything like that’, Dean said with a faraway look. ‘She made it up herself. Listen to yourself, Sam, I’m not that kook to decide to kill the President of the United States’.

‘Your doctor said you said…’

‘Yeah, blah-blah-blah, let me guess: she said that I said that the last time I saw my mysterious savior, we were plotting to kill the mightiest person in the world?’

‘Exactly’.

‘Relax, Sam. I’m pretty sure that I meant God’.

‘What?!’ Sam was definitely ready for the second wave of madness. ‘Do you think _that_ sounds better?!’

‘Do you think I care?’ Dean imitated Sam’s almost hysterical intonations, mocking him. ‘Admit that killing God at least is not judicable, opposed to killing the President, or last time I checked it wasn’t, but you know better, lawyer Sammy’.

Dean was incredibly tired. And he didn’t care. Everything that he thought was real was impeached by his therapist. Everything she told him was farcical to Dean. The only true thing in all that psycho theory was five stages of grief; Dean passed them all. 

He was in denial, when he had heard it for the first time. He thought that he was dreaming, maybe concussed, or probably it was a psychological experiment carried out by the Army. Dean recollected his previous life really dimly; however he had a feeling that his past had a strong connection to military life. Sam told the last time he saw him Dean was a car mechanic, but everything was possible after Dean vanished. That part Dean believed in: he was definitely good at fixing car engines and kind of loved doing it. But the rest was ridiculous, and it took weeks to Dean to understand that people around him actually believed that bollocks they talked. 

Anger came second: and it was the longest stage. And that was why Sam decided to place Dean into a mental institution. Dean was intractable and mad. Every time someone said something that contradicted Dean’s perfect world, Dean was ready to rip them apart. He felt like everyone tried to deride him, and he fought back, like he had been always doing at school when someone tried to bully him or his little brother. His life became a constant fight, and Sam couldn’t help but address some professionals to at least conclude an armistice for a while.

Then, bargaining came. Finding himself in Lawrence Saving Path, some weird and suspiciously undenominational _and_ Christian-inspired puzzle house, Dean assumed that he could sign out soon if he could find right answers. He tried to hack the system that confined him on principle of ‘I play along with your crap – you play along mine’. He failed. They called Dean’s playing along ‘recovery’ and his demand to be played along ‘relapse’. 

Then Dean became depressed. He finally understood that he had no chances to reach out a single person in that mad world. Even Sammy, his darling brother, denied Dean’s right and that kneecapped Dean the most. In Dean’s perfect – ok, not _perfect_ , just _real_ \- life, Sam was always on his side even if he doubted. Falling of the last stronghold made Dean fell miserable. 

At that point, he considered killing himself. 

And then the dreams came. It was the same every night he saw it: everything was on fire, unbearable pain stung his entire body, and his mind was about to literally boil; it felt like ages but after that a man put a hand on his left shoulder and that horror stopped. Dean couldn’t recall the succession of events and conceded that some of his memory could really be made up by twists of his damaged brain, but he was sure that that man saved him that day. 

Dean decided that it was a sign. Like, if a soul wanted to stay in a body, any futile crap could be a sign to carry on. So he did.

Sam calmed down a bit and sat on the bed.

‘Well, Dean, I… I do want to believe you. I do want to find out that you’re right and that everything you saw that day was true. But… you know. Your memory is cheating on you. You know, Jess is alive, and you were not in 9/11, and…’

‘I understand, Sam’, Dean interposed. ‘Everything I say sounds… insane. To you. Because you know another life, as well as, damn, everyone in this world does. But let’s just… imagine, ok? That we are both right. And that the man I see in my dreams really exists. And that he had saved me for real. It makes sense then, Sam! And yes, my version seems nuts, but no one, no fucking one, had managed to explain me what the hell that trace in a shape of a human palm on my shoulder is!’

‘Ok’, Sam shrugged. ‘Neither can I. But yeah, I’m ready to imagine. What then?’

‘I don’t know. It’s you who’re a clever fellow, not me. What does your ‘Critique of pure reason’ say about it?‘ Dean wiggled his fingers in the air like he was telling a spooky story by the fire.

‘Well’, Sam coughed. ‘If I am right, and you are right, and we both are simultaneously right… it might just mean that we are talking about different things’.

‘You mean that my life _I’m_ talking about and my life _you’re_ talking about _are_ different things? And who’s insane after that?’

‘It’s just like methodology of science sees it. Probably, if we precise…’

‘Sammy’, Dean crashed on his knees in front of his brother, tapping Sam’s lap with his hands like a clockwork bunny in a battery ads. ‘You’re fucking right! We _do_ speak about different things. Have you ever thought that maybe… I am another Dean? Like some twilight zone or something?’

Sam smiled helplessly.

‘It sounds insane, Dean. Insane, but… logical’.

‘No, brother, it makes sense. Like, you know, people who talk deliriously, they have moments of clarification, right? Do you know how many such moments have I had? Ze-ro. Whatever they give me, whatever they drug me with, I stay delirious. So maybe I’m sane, just not in that world’. 

He wanted to continue, but his speech was interrupted with shrill beeping of Sam’s cell. 

‘Well, Dean, let’s stop before you drag me into your own madness, ok? I really have to go now, and I beg you, please, don’t say anything like that to your doctor anymore. I’ll arrange everything for you to be the same as it was, but please don’t let me down again’.

Sam made a move to get up.

Dean stood up and moved back.

‘One more thing. Sam that I know would never say that I’m letting him down if I was trying to escape from the trap I’d gotten into. He believes me more that he believes himself. You’re a nice person, Sam, and I kinda owe you for taking care of business, but you’re not that Sam I know and love’.

Sam froze at the doorway, staring at Dean. His face was… desperate. He looked like a man who was losing something precious and who, at the same time, had already made up his mind with inevitability of it. 

‘I feel like that, too. You’re not the Dean I used to know. You’re not my brother who raised me. You’re not the one who was my role model when I was a child. All I see is just a shadow of that brilliant person I used to love. But I still care of you. I still… hope. And, secretly, I would love to find out that you’re right and you’re just another Dean from another world. But now…’

‘Go, Sam’ Dean said. ‘You have your business, and I… I have to think it over, I guess’.

‘Bye, Dean’.

‘See you, Sammy’.

***

‘I didn’t expect you to come so soon’, Sam said discontentedly. He hated to be caught off guard, especially by that kind of people. 

‘Oh really? Then why did it look like you flipped a coin into the pit to come back? Or rather like an earring which a mistress accidentally left at her man’s apartment for his wife to find it while cleaning?’ 

It was no other than James Novak: beige trench coat, suit, and, boy, he looked like a man who had spent entire night on the road.

Deep inside Sam smiled. He didn’t like the guy. Well, he didn’t like Seraph Enterprise and the guy was just a skipjack asshole. 

‘You were so nice last night, what’s happened? Where did the passion go?’ Sam mocked the guy, but it was just because he was extremely tired. He hadn’t slept a wink last night.

‘You ran away to Kansas, Dorothy, and made me follow you. Honestly, I hate Midwest’. 

‘Glad to hear. So, where should I sign?’

‘Here’ James Novak proffered him the papers. Sam inspected them attentively.

‘You know what… I’m not gonna sign it. It’s a bondage deal. As a lawyer, I just can’t approve it’.

James Novak narrowed his eyes. His chiseled features suddenly became ominous.

‘We’’ll sue you’ he said. 

‘For what? For not accepting a hard bargain? It’s not how the American law works, Mr. Novak’.

‘You won’t be able to work with those partners of yours then’.

‘It’s a price we pay for not losing our business’ Sam smiled weakly. He knew that he would pay for that impertinence, but he couldn’t stop. He should go and break some shop windows, or punch some faces in a bar, but he was ruining the deal and his career instead. But he just couldn’t stop. He needed some justice in the end. If his brother is doomed to die not recognizing his own nephew, so why should he care about such an insignificant moment of another’s business?

‘It’s actually better to make a deal with the Devil’. Sam chuckled. ‘At least you can expect him to abide the terms of his part’. 

‘You’re hinting at that you have to be obliged to undersign papers with you blood just not to forget to do it?’

‘We’re done here, Mr. Novak’ Sam rapped out, crumpled up the document and shoved it into his bag. ‘It was nice to greet you in Kansas. Enjoy the stay, probably your only opportunity to appreciate amenities of Midwest’.

Sam hurried away. He couldn’t remember himself such an acrimonious piece of shit, but he didn’t care. 

James Novak stood on the street, staring after Sam Winchester leaving, and felt like he was in a cheap knock-about comedy. He flew across the country to get one damn signature. And he failed. He was fed up with that Leslie Nielsen crap, but the universe seemed to not care. His unchangeable, perpetual luck disappeared and left him weak and lame. 

He shuddered.

Sam Winchester was a real asshole, he thought. He deserved to be gobbled up by Seraph Enterprise.

James looked behind and observed the building Sam Winchester had just left closely.

Whoa, it was like jackpot. That building was a nuthouse. 

Hit or miss, James thought, he could try. Maybe some stupid employee of that nuthouse would tell him something that he could use.

Maybe Sam Winchester had a skeleton in the closet, and that skeleton longed to be useful.

He dove into the door and approached to a young woman on the reception. She raised her tired face to James and asked with a slow, apathetic tone:

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m here to visit… Winchester’.

There were only two options: or Sam Winchester has a flaky relative, or it was his high school love who attempted suicide because of their big unforgettable love to him, and the latest was highly doubtful.

‘How are you related to Mr. Winchester?’

James hooted silently. It worked!

‘I’m his –‘ _Think fast, Novak. Who is he? Father, brother, beloved grandpa?.._

He chose a safe option.

‘– cousin’ 

‘What’s your name?’

She was inscrutable like Washington’s Rushmore face.

‘James… eh… Winchester’.

‘You’re not on the list’. 

‘Which list?’

‘The list of visitors who are allowed to visit Mr. Winchester’.

James was thinking anxiously. If it had happened just yesterday, he would go and force her into letting him in without a second thought. He didn’t feel that lucky now.

‘Sure I’m not. Sammy composed it, and he didn’t put _anyone_ on it but him. Am I right?’

The girl almost rolled her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t let you in’. 

James looked around thievishly and pulled something out of his inner pocket.

‘Well, maybe you have to talk to my lawyer. His name is Benjamin, but he prefers Benny’.

He gave her his business card with one hundred dollars bank note that was obviously peeking up.

The girl took a card and money and said in her constantly emotionless tone:

‘Say to you lawyer, Mr. Winchester, that if he wants to talk, I gonna be waiting for him behind the building next to the staff’s smoking area in half an hour’. 

James beamed.

‘Thank you very much’.


	4. Chapter 4

Obedience was not a virtue of Dean Winchester. There were few people who Dean paid respect to, and others were helpless to make him act along their ideas. Unfortunately, he had to adjust there, in the clinic. He was a victim of medical lawlessness, how he called it. 

Dean knew that his doctor, that nasty puppeteer, was in charge of everything. She mostly broadcasted her sick ideas to Dean through her personnel, and Dean had to comply with their instructions, even most unpredictable and ridiculous ones.

So, when he was told to follow the hospital aide he paid no heed on how unexpected it was and just followed. The girl who led Dean passed through the wing, took the service stairs down, and soon they were in a small storeroom Dean had never seen before. He dawned upon that their walk was not a part of his cure. The girl pulled a bunch of keys out of her pocket and struggled through the tough lock on the door. She took a doctor's overall that was hanging on a hook next to the door and handed it to Dean.

‘Put it on’ she demanded. ‘Or you’re not going anywhere’.

Dean obeyed, though the intimidation was useless: he didn’t plan to go anywhere anyway. 

They went outside, and it was… outside indeed. Ok, it still was the territory of the clinic, but it was a tiny field separated only by fence. Patients were allowed to walk in the inner yard only, and Dean had never seen this part of the surrounding. The girl nodded in the direction of a person who was standing at the other side of the fence. 

‘You have fifteen minutes, sweethearts. And if you bring anything banned from your date, I’ll shove it into your throat. Got it?’

Dean nodded, though he did not get it at all. He was just glad to be able to speak to someone who was not a part of his therapist’s horror show.

He approached to the man who was waiting outside and got a closer look.

‘What a fuck –‘ 

Dean thought he was hallucinating at first. It was hard to recognize the man: last time Dean had seen him the man was wearing military clothes and a helmet and was covered in dirt, soot and blood. 

But it was him, no doubt. The guy who saved him that day in 9/11. 

Dean darted to the fence and grabbed the bars.

‘You!’ He shouted. By the look of the man wincing, Dean understood that he was too loud. ‘You… I knew you were real. How did you find me?’

‘You’re Mr. Winchester?’ The man asked hesitantly. ‘And Sam Winchester is your…’

He made a pause that was supposed to make Dean want to continue his phrase, but Dean screwed up his face.

‘Who are you?’ He snapped and recoiled. 

Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. Just that the stranger had a face of the man from Dean’s dream didn’t mean that he had to be that man; it happened more than once that Dean thought that he knew the background of a person we was looking at, and the person appeared to differ from his expectations. But that man… Dean was sure that he should be real. Dean’s face went pale.

Dean couldn’t go through it again. Not now, not with that man.

‘My name is James Novak, and I and a friend of your …’ the man didn’t have a chance to finish because of a sharp sound of thunder above them.

Dean and James both looked up: it was cloudy, but no rain and no lightning.

Dean used the moment of James’ mind wandering, grabbed his tie and pulled it closer.

‘Listen, you, _friend_ ’ Dean hissed. ‘I know this is a lie. I know who you are’.

In his eyes, Dean saw something that he had never seen before. The man lied, and it was obvious, everyone lied to Dean in that world. But the man was aware of his lying. He looked like a person who had something to hide and who was about to be debunked.

Dean lifted in spirits. He grabbed the man’s collar with his both hands and shook him a little.

‘Tell. Me. Now!’ He demanded in a low voice because he didn’t want others to hear them.

Cliffhanging inner struggle reflected on the man’s face, and then he gave up.

‘My name is James Novak, and I have no fucking idea why I’m here. I hope you tell me’.

***

James wasn’t a big fan of BDSM and other activities that involved hanging, but that crazy brother of Sam Winchester literally hung him on his tie. He should have thought about risks of being attacked by a mad man before bothering him. 

Winchester was obviously out of head. He addressed James as he had already met him.

James was sure that he had never ever met that guy in his life. 

But his madness was a good hook to catch him and his conceited brother. James decided to play along and declared that he has no idea why he was there. He imitated hesitation. He had used that trick thousand times: if someone accused him of lying, James pretended that he’s ashamed and afraid, and then he told another lie, but more… passionate. 

And the madman fell for it.

‘Do you remember? New York. 9/11. I was under the rubble, and you came and saved me’.

‘9/11? I’m not sure…’ he said, thinking. James remembered where he was when he had heard about it. It was right after he had been appointed to lead his first department. That day he was not in his office because he had to reach a client, and it was fucking hard to find him in the suburbs of Chicago. James had ended up in some shitty part of the city, in the basement, where the guy was hiding. The contract had gone to the dickens, by the way. And James’ boss was fired after that. 

‘You were an emergency response worker or paramedic, I don’t know. Some military. You used to serve, right?’

Winchester let James’ collar go and stepped back. James decided not to respond. He knew sometimes to shut up and let people talk.

‘You don’t remember? Wait, I’ll show you…’ Winchester tugged the collar of his own tee aside and showed his bare shoulder. He had a stain on it that looked like a burn. James looked closer and realized that the burn had a perfect shape of a palm. 

‘What is that?’ James couldn’t help but say. Well, the guy was nuts, and he could hurt himself as much as he liked, but it was highly improbable for a living person to render a burn in a shape of a human palm. Winchester would have needed a cliché what would have followed the shape to a single line on skin. And they were not in a sci-fi movie, after all.

‘You did it’ Winchester answered. ‘That day. It’s your hand’.

James froze. 

‘Mine?’ 

‘Yes’.

James realized that Winchester was obsessed, and he accidently became an object of his obsession. When he was planning to get to Sam Winchester through his loony relative, he didn’t expect that he would get endued with such responsibility.

‘I scare you’ Winchester said, looking at James apparently aghast face. ‘They made you forget, didn’t they?’

For a brief moment, Winchester looked so sad that James wanted to cheer him up somehow.

‘It was nice to meet you, James Novak’ Winchester said, stepping back. ‘My name is Dean, by the way. Just in case… if you recall something’.

Winchester turned away and headed to the door, pocking his head. 

James Novak wasn’t the compassionate type, but at that moment he felt like the whole world was on Dean’s shoulders.

And suddenly, it started to rain. 

It was strong and hard. James became wet to the bone immediately. He felt cold rivulets running down his face and leaking under the collar of his shirt. He ran for his life to the closest diner, and took his wind only on at the table next to the window.

It was that type of fall rains which could last forever. They fell, and fell, and fell, and bubbles were rising on pounds, and roads turned into streams. James hated that messiness, through he loves rains. He decided to wait it out and to leave for Chicago then.

James wanted to order just coffee, but the waitress said that he could get it for free, but he had to order something else. James said hamburger, and he got everything within ten minutes. James put the burger aside and nipped his coffee, staring through the window. 

He was sitting like that for like an hour before he decided to call a taxi. James asked the waitress for a local taxi number and called it, but the lady on the wire said that all taxis were busy because of the god-awful weather, and the James had to wait for at least two hours to get his car. He agreed and got back to his place.

It was gross. That type of gross when you should think whether you’re a part of a horror movie or a reality show. 

Rain seemed to be endless. 

He didn’t even notice when the girl from the clinic came in and plonked herself down in front of him. She apparently had been sitting like that for a while before James noticed her and flinched in surprise. 

‘Hi there’ She said emotionlessly. ‘How was your date?’

‘Date?’ James frowned. ‘It was not a date. If you expect me to give you another yard, you’d better try your luck somewhere else’. 

The girl smirked.

‘You can take it back, sweetheart’ she said and put a bank note onto the table. ‘I’m Meg, by the way’.

‘I don’t know what are you talking about’ James said, unsure if she performed some trick to frame him up. 

‘Come on, I’m not after your dignity, I’m not even sure that you have it.’ She made a pause, and then took the yard and put it back into her pocket. 

‘I can have your money, no problems. Just wanted you to know that I help you because I like you, not because you’ve applied your capitalist supremacy magic to me’.

‘Like me? Sounds weird’.

‘Yeap.’ She confirmed. ‘Because you remind me of my little brother. His name was Clarence. Even more weird.’

James winced. Clarence? Who would name their child Clarence being in their mind?

‘I got it was a blind date and one of you ditched the other one.’ She shrugged. ‘It happens. What are you going to do next?’

‘I gonna go home’ James answered succinctly. 

‘And where do you live?’ She asked offhandedly. ‘You’d better live here in Lawrence. Otherwise you’re doomed’.

‘They have a rule in your nuthouse, to hire loonies only?’ James snapped.

She silently pointed to the screen of the muted TV that was hanging above the bar counter. James narrowed his eyes to be able to read the travelling line beneath the face of the anchorwoman. 

‘Don’t torture yourself; it says all roads of Lawrence suffered somehow from this pouring rain. They’ll fix it, of course, but not before tomorrow’. 

‘You’re kidding’ James snapped at her instinctively. ‘It’s freaking Midwest. You don’t have monsoons. You have tornados. 

‘That’s why we’re unprepared’ Meg shrugged. ‘Come on, Lawrence is a good place to spend a night. I know a good motel’. 

A sudden surmise darted by the bottom of James’ thoughts.

‘Are you a hooker?’

‘No, and you?’ Meg rebuffed. ‘I’m a nuthouse hello girl, I have enough danger and humiliation in my life. Man, believe me, I work in hell’. 

After everything what he went through that morning, James laughed. He decided that he could stay in Lawrence for one night waiting for roads to get fixed. It was not a big deal, after all. When his taxi came, he asked to take him to the motel Meg advised him to stay in. He even let her to wave him goodbye.

***

‘So, sweetheart, I have something for you’.

Dean opened his eyes. He was lying on his bed, quiet and relaxed, with his hand joined on his chest, as if he was ready to attend his own funeral. He wished to be able to sleep, but he could just drowse instead. He brooded if he had to make up his mind with the fact that the man from his dream knew nothing about him. On the one hand, it even sounded goofily: the man of his dream. On the other hand, it couldn’t be a mistake: Dean knew his face very well. He could paint it from memory if only he had a painting skill.

Dean was puzzled, and he needed time for himself before the late evening session with the therapist. He didn’t expect any guest, especially that woman.

‘What again?’ He grunted. ‘Leave me alone’. 

The girl came closer and stopped at the end of Dean’s bed, leaning onto the door of the closet.

‘That friend of yours, James Novak.’ She smirked. 

‘I don’t want to talk ‘bout it’. Dean answered wryly. 

‘Pity, because he wants’.

Dean jerked and sat up on the bed.

‘What?’

‘The Jimmy guy wants to meet you tonight, Dean. And if you promise to be a good boy, I’ll help you’.

From all people who had talked to Dean since he got there, that girl was both the most lunatic and the most prudent one. But Dean knew too well what it meant ‘to be a good boy’ in there. It meant to play along. They often asked him to play along with their freaking ideas, and then threw him a bone pretending that that was the very thing he needed. Dean’s therapist considered an opportunity to say what Dean thought was true as a reward for him. He was used not to hope for more. But the girl’s speech sounded… different. 

‘Ok then. What do I have to do?’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Just leave the clinic and never come back’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment if you like it. Otherwise... feel free to comment nevertheless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of rape (no one was raped though)

Dean never considered running away from the clinic. It had been always the same procedure: he got into the clinic, received some ‘intense therapy’, pretended to get better; then his therapist decided that he was ready to go back to his life outside; then he visited her twice a week, and at one point she had to call Sam to say that his brother Dean was relapsing again and that he required ‘special care’.

So Dean never had an urge to run: everything he needed just to wait. 

But that time was different. He didn’t have time to wait till his Delilah vouchsafed to untie him. He had to get to this mysterious James Novak before he blasted off as everything that kept Dean sane did. 

Dean didn’t trust the girl from the clinic but he becalmed himself thinking that it would be such a farfetched trick for the doctor to make it up to challenge his sanity. He was not going to rely on the girl still. She was ok as an evacuation plan, not as a fire-fighting suit. 

He did as she told. He behaved well at the session with the therapist: answered her questions and was bitchy enough for her not to suspect anything. He went back to his ward then, collected his belongings and put them into the pillowcase. Dean was not allowed to have his duffle bag with him, and Meg, that girl, said that she couldn’t risk and ‘drag his purse through the entire clinic to him to feel pretty’. 

Well, pillowcase was an option, too.

Dean knew that he had very little time to get to James. They would notice that he disappeared in the morning and call Sam immediately. His therapist would fain call the police if they didn’t reach Sam before she got to her office. Dean felt a bit pity about disappointing little Sammy, but it wasn’t _his_ Sammy, so it did not count. Police would be a worse problem, because they would look for his and his freedom of moving would be quite limited. 

When everyone in the clinic went to sleep, Meg skulked into Dean’s ward. He was pretending that he was asleep, but after she called his name Dean got up. He arranged his pillow and blanket so it looked like there was someone on the bed. Dean took a white coat Meg gave him and put it on. He could bet that he looked weird, dressed like a doctor with an improvised pillow in his hand. But no one was going to see them, anyway. Floors were empty as Meg was leading him towards his escape.

They passed through familiar little yard where Dean had met James in the morning. Meg opened a barely visible wicket door and made a gesture that looked like something between ‘welcome, sir’ and ‘get the fuck out’.

She told him the name of the motel James stayed in. Dean still didn’t know the number of the room, but Meg said that he can just ask a friend of her who worked there. 

Dean didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye before she slammed the door behind him. He heard her steps getting quieter and quieter before she disappeared behind the backdoor of the building.

Dean knew Lawrence; well, he had a mastercopy of its streets and buildings in his head from his memory about events that apparently had never happened there. He just polished that experience with new impressions that he had got from living there between his ‘relapses’. Sam did his best to make Dean’s life outside of the clinic... sustainable. Dean got an uptown house (very nice through) because Sam was full of hope that decent life would prevent Dean from relapsing again. Dean was grateful, though, generally, he didn’t give a fuck about how comfortable his home is. 

The last thing he remembered of living in Lawrence was the fire. He, Sam and his dad left Kansas a week after their mother died in that fire.

Guess what? There was no fire in that so-called ‘normal life’.

The therapist said that Dean was kind of obsessed by fires, because they showed up in most of his deliria. Predictably, she connected that what she called ‘obsession’ with Dean’s probable proclivity to rapes. 

Dean told her that he was one hundred percent sure that he had never raped anyone. He was almost ninety-nine percent sure that he even had never watched porn with rapes; his kinks were far cry from it. Dean occasionally had sex while outside the clinic, and he knew that he liked it rough sometimes, but never forced anyone to anything. It wasn’t even a taboo; it just squicked him. It was like his mind was separated in two zones, where one zone was for pleasure and the other was for violence, no intersections.

He told his therapist about that. He also mentioned, though he wasn’t sure and rested upon her patchy data, that rapists were people who enjoyer fire and had urge to start it, while he, real or fantasy one, had suffered any time he had dealt with fire. Needless to say, that the therapist seized her chance and declared that Dean probably was raped in his past and his fake memory was how his mind was struggling through that trauma. 

‘By whom?’ Dean asked, rolling his eyes. ‘By a captured plane crashing into a building?’

The therapist didn’t say anything, but by her a bit too delicate caught Dean understood that he dug his own grave and that she was a whisper away from giving up being professional and saying some shit like about a plane being a phallic object. 

At all events, Dean was free. He went by feet and looked around constantly just in case if someone would decide that a man in a white coat and with a pillow on the street in the middle of the night is strange.

Dean found the motel almost effortlessly. The friend of Meg was there, and she told Dean where James’ room was without even bothering to ask why was he asking. It was on second floor, and Dean had to go upstairs. He found the rooms and knocked the door.

Well, he didn’t expect James to open his door so fast. 

‘You?!’ James hissed and tried to shut the door, but Dean put his foot between the door and the side-post. 

‘Meg said you wanna talk’ Dean said. ‘She told me where to find you’.

‘She lied’ James snapped. ‘Go away’.  
Dean felt like desperation was filling him to the top. The man from his dream was his last chance to run from this travelling circus they called his life, and that man didn’t want to see him. Well, but he wouldn’t real Dean Winchester if he hadn’t try all he could.

‘You want something from Sam, am I right? Let me in and I’ll tell you how to get it’. 

James hesitated a bit, and then stepped aside. Dean let himself in and shut the door.

He could have a closer look on James: the guy was in the same clothes Dean saw him in the morning, looked tired and disheveled, but he didn’t look like a man who was sleeping five minutes ago. The bed was made neatly. 

‘Have you slept?’ Dean asked. James shook his head.

‘When was the last time you slept?’

‘Yesterday till six a. m.’

‘And you don’t want to? What are you on?’

James gave him a grumpy look. Dean kept going with a small talk.

‘Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not gonna tell anyone. Even my brother or my therapist’. 

‘Nothing. I don’t need anything to stay awake. It’s natural. Anyway, you wanted to tell me something about Sam Winchester’. 

‘Sammy is a brother of mine. He’s married to a woman who I know died ten years ago, they have a three-years-old child together who is pretty much alive, didn’t take it after his mother. Sam lives in Cali and pays for my every-three-months trips to that Neverland you’ve found me in. I’m nuts because I become violent when people try to convince me that I have never been in 9/11 and that my injury is some kind of God’s gift. The palm on my shoulder, I mean. You saw it’.

James didn’t show much emotion, but from what Dean could see, he was rather skeptic then flabbergasted.

‘What do you mean, she’s dead? He, what, is hiding her body in a freezer in his garage?’

‘Nope. She walks, she talks, and she takes her time pitying her brother-in-law’.

‘What makes you think she’s dead?’

Dean smiled widely.

‘Oh, it’s the most interesting part. I remember it’.

‘Remember?’ James chuckled. ‘Like you remember me?’

‘Exactly’ Dean answered. ‘Well, you might think that I made this up in the moment I saw you, but here I have some proof’. He disemboweled his impromptu pillow and pulled out a plump writing book.

‘She, I mean my therapist, made me keep a diary. Take it and open on nineteenth of August’.

Dean gave it to James, and James did as he told him.

‘Read’ Dean demanded.

‘ _The man was maybe an inch smaller than me. Dark. With blue eyes. Sometimes some cheesy profiles on dating websites say that someone has blue eyes and in the end they’re anything but blue: green, grey, even hazel. It’s not like that. They were really blue. Not even light blue. It was almost indigo for fuck’s sake…._ Well, Dean, it looks like an elementary school kid is describing his favorite movie character. No offence. I have very significant eye color, indeed, but I still don’t see why it couldn’t be just a coincidence’.

‘Read on. I described everything, even your tattoo’.

‘Tattoo? I don’t have any’. 

‘Really?!’ Dean almost jumped on the place he was sitting. ‘No you have. Here’ Dean slapped his stomach where the bottom of his ribcage was, from the left. ‘Under your chest’. 

‘I have nothing there, I can show you’ James stood up quickly, unbuttoned his shirt, and shoved a flap away. ‘Look, it’s nothing’.

Dean’s face grew pale. 

‘I can’t believe…’ He gasped. ‘You… that… but the rest…’

James sat down not bothering to tuck the shirt in or even button it up.

‘I’m sorry, man… Your mind really just made it up’.

Dean stood up. He was confused. He could reproduce that dream in his mind without a hindrance, but that time when he tried to imagine it again he was sure that he saw James’ face instead of that man. Dean couldn’t understand whether it was James’ face from the beginning or it became that after he saw him. It was the first time he couldn’t believe his memory. And it hurt so much to understand that his firmness broke over his most precious, most infusive memory. 

‘Ok, then’ Dean mumbled at last. ‘I’d better go’.

‘Be my guest’ James said, spreading his hand. ‘Or, to be accurate, don’t be’.

He lied down on the bed, found a remote control and turned on the TV.

And then the thunder came. 

Dean moaned.

‘For the fuck sake!’ He grunted through his teeth, and James did almost the same.

‘It seems like they won’t make it for today’ James commented. He gave Dean a sympathetic look. Dean was gritting his teeth trying to pluck up his courage to go outside and get wet as a sewer rat.

‘I can hear you suffering, man’ James finally said. ‘Sit down. Stay here till the rain ends’. 

Dean sat down tentatively.

‘Aren’t you afraid to give shelter to a random psycho?’

James chuckled.

‘I’m not sleepy. And if I’m awake, you can’t smother me in my sleep’.

‘Good point’.

They became silent. James was idly flipping through the channels till he found a music program. 

‘My brain is overloaded already and I’m not into sport’ He said as if Dean was accusing him of bad taste.

An old song of _The Cranberries_ played first. Dean wasn’t a big fan of them, but he remembered that song was popular when he was in high school. Not as popular as _Zombie_ was, but they were next to each other in that album, so Dean couldn’t avoid knowing it anyway. They probably had an hour of old music on that channel, because next song was of _U2_. Dean remembered the name of the song, it was called _Beautiful Day_.

It was a silly song, but Dean felt like a warm wave enveloped his heart. He didn’t even understand that we smiled before James asked him why.

Suddenly Dean remembered.

‘My little brother danced to that song with his first girlfriend of their prom. I saw them. It was sweet. I almost didn’t want to throw up’.

James laughed.

‘Wha-a, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. How old were you?’

‘I guess twenty-two, I’m four years older’.

‘Such an old guy for a teen’s prom, you perv’.

‘It was last time I was supposed to see my brother before he went to college, don’t blame me’ Dean said. He smiled to himself again. The music stopped, and a VJ appeared on the screen. She blabbed some nothings Dean didn’t want to listen to because he was abruptly devoured by his first detailed _good_ memory and he tried to pick up everything he could from it. Dean was sure that his memory was about _his_ Sammy, not about that arrogant self-assured normie version that put him into the nuthouse. 

‘Wait, don’t tell me that you’re brother is twenty-five’. James suddenly said.

‘E-e-eh…’ Dean felt deadlocked for a moment. He didn’t remember how old his brother was. To be honest, he didn’t even remember how old _he_ was.

‘The girl has just said that. That song was released in October, 2000. So your brother graduated not before 2001’. 

Dean looked at James dumbly and tried to count. 

He could remember that prom pretty much well because he saw Sammy dancing, but they fought three hours after because Dean was supposed to bring him home and Sammy wanted to spend the entire night with his girlfriend. But he also remembered the photo his therapist showed him. That Millennium celebration, with him, Jess and champagne. Sam definitely looked like someone who was allowed to drink. He couldn’t be sixteen on that photo. He looked like twenty-four or something.

Dean was older. So he was supposed to be around forty already.

‘What year is now?’ He asked helplessly. He understood how pathetic and insane it sounded.

‘Two thousand eight’ James answered. ‘And sorry, man, you don’t look like twenty-nine. Nah.’


End file.
